Lost Son
by Catch23North
Summary: Wandering in the rubble of a Cardassian city, Garak finds a survivor. There are some kinds of innocence even a member of the Obsidian Order won't destroy.
1. Lost Son

Written 8/26/99. I believe this follows the DS9 ep. 'What You Leave Behind', but it's been a LONG time since I watched the series. Written from Garak's POV.

* * *

Lost Son

--

I found him in the rubble of Mila's house. I was waiting there, waiting for the right moment to use the phaser I'd brought with me. A great tide of destruction had passed, and streets I knew by name were simply not there. There was nothing left, of the house, or of me. I was obsolete. All I knew, all I had orchestrated, all I could do, had not been enough, and Cardassia, my Cardassia, was burning.

It was not the loss of the structures that pained me, no, it was the fracturing of the system by which culture is passed down. A new generation would arise out of this stinking heap, and they would look the same as any of us always had, but they would be no better than any of the rest of the races that teemed the stars. That which made us real, that which made others seem clumsy by comparison, would be gone. Was it poise? Subtlety? An simple appreciation for complex geometry? I would not insult this quality by demanding it's definition, but I could not refuse to mourn it's loss.

I didn't see him at first, obsessed as I was with staring out over broken buildings, and the trails of smoke that drifted up out of them. Those trails were amber, and red, and pale yellow-gray. They shaded, and choked, and wreathed the empty sky. When you burn something that is beautiful, the smoke takes on that beauty, even as it ends it. I heard a noise in the rubble, a chunk of shifting permacrete, perhaps. Then I saw him, a wisp of gray in an ocean of dust. He didn't speak, didn't call out to me, merely observed, eyes wide and cautious. I did nothing about him. I expected that he too, like the smoke, would blow away in time. He did not, however.

I don't know how long we sat there, trying not to watch each other. He approached me at last, and put a small, grubby hand on my knee. I looked up at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time. His hair was shorter than mine, and his tunic was cut in a middle-class fashion, though it was now beyond all hope of recovery. The ridges of his neck were thin, in the way that young children's sometimes are. Dust from the rubble lined the grooves between his scales, and lightened his skin. I did not brush him away, and he sat beside me on the rubble of Mila's house, and we watched the fires together.

Julian came the next morning. I think I had been hoping he would, but I wasn't sure he would understand the meaning of our last conversation. I hadn't planned to see this sunrise, but the boy had fallen asleep in my lap, and contrary to what some would have you believe, I do have a conscience. Julian climbed up the mound of broken stone, and I stood, holding the boy still asleep against my shoulder. Julian's eyes flicked over us professionally before he had completely gained the top of the pile, ever the conscientious physician.

"Good morning, doctor," I said to him.

"Yes, it is," he agreed. I could tell from the look in his eyes, that he hadn't been sure he would find me alive, and that he was furious. The boy woke up, and tensed in my arms. I set him on his feet, and Julian knelt beside him, and asked him if he was all right. The boy was shy of him, and stayed close to me. He'd probably never seen a human up close before. I put a hand on the boy's shoulder, and told him,

"This is Dr. Bashir. You can trust him."

The boy answered Julian's questions, by nodding or shaking his head, and Julian gave us envelopes of water from the medical kit he carried over his shoulder. He was worried about dehydration, particularly in the boy.

"How did you find me?" I asked him. He looked from me to the boy, and back again. He sighed.

"Let's talk about that later, shall we?"

"Of course," I said. We climbed down the pile of rubble, and made our way out of the city, towards home.

-


	2. An Understanding

-

"On the contrary, my dear Doctor. As a rule, Cardassians take their children very seriously."

"If that's so, why were you-" began Julian.

"Had my father acknowledged me, I would have become a weakness in his defenses, one that he could ill afford to have."

"So you were hidden to prevent you from becoming a target for his political adversaries?"

"That would be one way to describe the situation. Personally, I would say that I was simply inconvenient to him."

"I see."

"If you say so, Julian. Now if you don't mind, might I ask where this line of questioning is going?"

"I was just wondering if you'd ever had children."

"Me? A busy young operative that his father wouldn't even acknowledge? Hardly. -I lacked both the time and the pedigree."

"Pity," Julian sipped his tea. Garak stared at him for a moment, then caught himself and smiled.

"You have the most interesting notions. But you still haven't told me what this is about."

"It's about that little boy you found in the rubble two days ago. He had no living next of kin, so I thought-"

"NO," Garak's tone was quite firm, though his voice remained level.

"Why not?" Julian had known this was a long shot, but Garak's swift and clear refusal surprised him.

"Because he is not my son, and you cannot ask me to treat him as if he was."

"You know better than I what his life will be like without-"

"Do not presume to manipulate MY sympathies, Doctor," snapped Garak, "-there are thousands of children just like him in the refugee camps on Cardassia Prime. How are you preparing to justify saving only him?"

"It would be a start..."

"A start would be finding him a family that wants him. He is NOT MY SON. If you cannot understand why that is prohibitive, I'm afraid we have a disagreement."

"Well, than I guess we do," concurred Julian. They sat in silence for a long moment, and Julian took another sip of his tea.

"So, what's his name?"

"No-one's really been able to figure that out," Bashir admitted.

"Why not?"

"His medical files were destroyed in the bombings, and he isn't very talkative. I think it's a kind of post-traumatic shock, but there's no telling how long it will last."

"You mean he hasn't spoken at all?" Garak inferred.

"Right. He understands me, but he never replies. It's a relatively common reaction to trauma for children this age, he just has to start talking again, but still..."

* * *

"Pavsgen, patak, (Hello, child,)" said Garak. The boy looked up at him attentively, but said nothing. Garak crouched down and looked into the boy's face.

"Ayes meka cuf lamat, hi'asd, (You're still in there, little one,)" Garak tried again, "-nes 'a nu. (Talk to me.)"

The boy looked nervous, and started sucking on his lower lip. Garak was annoyed, but he didn't let any of it show on his face. While he'd sometimes told one of his prisoners that they'd broken as easily AS a child, he'd seldom had to literally FACE a child, and his methods in this case were necessarily limited. Garak and the boy looked at each other, and Garak let the silence settle over sickbay like a lead blanket. If the boy was nervous, that could be useful, and nothing heightened tension like a deliberate silence. Garak waited until the silence crystallized around them, then-

"Pah! (Boo!)" The boy jumped back, eyes wide, and started crying.

"Oh for gods' sake, Garak!" Bashir glared at him.

"Do you want me to get him to talk or not?" countered Garak, "I won't hurt him."

Julian took a long, calming breath, then let it out.

"Take it easy, will you? My idea was that he might respond better to someone of his own species, not to have him interrogated."

Garak smiled, and it had very little to do with humor.

"Of course."

There had to be a way to do this, there always was. If fear was unavailable to him, maybe an immersive approach would work. He had to remind the boy of a time when he was expected to speak, without knowing anything about his background. The boy was about five... hmmm... Garak gave the boy his hand, ready to draw it back quickly if the boy showed any biting tendencies- -like the last one.

The boy looked at his hand warily, then looked into Garak's face carefully. Garak looked friendly, and he hadn't hurt him. Maybe the 'Pah!' thing had been some kind of game... Who could ever figure out grownups, anyway?

"Cireo d'detapa odort? (What are the numbers?)" asked Garak. The boy licked his lips, but didn't answer. "Cireo d'eetapa odort?" Garak repeated. "Asd... bef... kij... lop... yuj... saq... (One... two... three... four... five... six...)"

"Der? (Seven?)" asked the boy. Garak nodded.

"Der... Jil... (Seven... eight...)"

"Plok... kol... asdkol... befkol... (Nine... ten... eleven... twelve...)" the boy recited. Garak patted the boy on the shoulder.

"Napra patak, napra. 'I, cireo ayesik kefu? (Good child, good. Now, what is your name?)"

"Nedan," the boy answered.

"Jik Garak. Tarvi grilevpar 'is Terok Nor. (I'm Garak. Welcome to Guardian Space Station.)" said Garak. He turned to Bashir. "Can you take it from here, Doctor?"

"I believe so... thank you." Bashir was impressed.

"Cireo'i nu atap? (Where's my mother?)" asked the boy.

"Nu yutl afs, (I don't know,)" said Garak, "-ere nu dayvsgen'i. Cherae corae Bashir. (-but I have to go now. Ask Dr. Bashir.) -Good day, Doctor." Garak turned to the computer console, and asked, "Salmakt, cro't? (Computer, time?)"

"Kol-kij-lopkol. (Ten forty three hours.)" answered the computer. Garak smiled, and walked out.

He hadn't lost his touch.

-


End file.
